


do not follow my footsteps

by ms bricolage (onefootforward)



Series: a hundred bits and baubles [6]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Continuation, F/M, Families of Choice, Family Feels, Fix-It, Gen, Travel, Wow there are so many tags I didn't know about
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-03-26
Packaged: 2018-03-19 16:31:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3616653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onefootforward/pseuds/ms%20bricolage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s not much left to destroy in the east, so she heads west. Pinpoints the sun and memorizes the stars—she’ll walk until she finds what she’s looking for, or until she outruns the blood on her heels.</p><p>Well, that’s the plan at least. It’s a good one, she thinks, solid—counts for contingencies and all that. Well, most of them.</p><p>She lasts two days before anyone catches up with her.</p><p>“Seriously?”</p><p>Octavia grins, unrepentant. “’Seriously’,” she mocks, “still in snarky lone wolf mode I see.”</p><p>aka. the fic where clarke has to leave, so her friends decide to follow</p>
            </blockquote>





	do not follow my footsteps

 

 

 

There’s not much left to destroy in the east, so she heads west. Pinpoints the sun and memorizes the stars—she’ll walk until she finds what she’s looking for, or until she outruns the blood on her heels.

Well, that’s the plan at least. It’s a good one, she thinks, solid—counts for contingencies and all that. Well,  _most_  of them.

She lasts two days before anyone catches up with her.

“Seriously?”

Octavia grins, unrepentant. “’Seriously’,” she mocks, “still in snarky lone wolf mode I see.” 

Clarke has no response for this except to switch her glare to the next Blake.

“ _Seriously_?” she repeats.

Bellamy doesn’t grin, but it’s probably a feat. His lips twitch and give it away.

Lincoln lands a reassuring hand on her shoulder just as Raven and Wick crest over the hill. Monty’s next to follow, smile wide.

“Well,” Bellamy drawls, “you’re not lookin’ at the ‘people’, you’re lookin’ at us. And we’ve all got blood on our hands.”

For once they look happy about this. Clarke is unamused.

Clarke lets them stay.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“You brought drinks?”

Monty raises his hand, “No,  _Bellamy_  brought drinks. I stole them.”

“Once a thief, always a thief, right?” Octavia laughs, nudging him in the side. Lincoln takes a deep sip and visibly tries not to shudder.

Clarke blinks at the canteen Monty shoves in her hands. “Wait, I thought you were busted for growing drugs?”

“Arguably those were not my mood enhancers,” he points out, “and who was I to let them stay with the wealthy?”

She thinks to the cupboard of whiskey and rye that her father had kept—old world relics, rarely opened. Fair enough.

“Mood enhancers,” she scoffs, but doesn’t press.

The fire heats her face and the next canteen pressed into her hands is full of water rather than moonshine. Clarke glances up to Bellamy, who’s taken the seat next to her, sprawled haphazardly as they are.

 _May we meet again_ , she thinks ruefully, and raises her glass to his.

 

* * *

 

 

No one asks her where she’s headed, so Clarke continues to carefully walk away from the rising sun. No one presses her to return, so she lets them know anyway.

“We should keep a record,” Octavia says, eyes trained on the tightly packed trees, “so we remember everything we find.”

Bellamy nods his agreement and Raven uses the opportunity to try and swipe his legs out with her crutch. She’d had to return to it after—well, Clarke doesn’t really know the specifics. Only that it’s helping Raven win whatever little bet she’s made with Wick.

Lincoln is the one to pull out a journal and hand it to Clarke, complete with a charcoal stub tucked into the pages. The whole thing reeks of carefully manoeuvered planning but…

It’s not  _bad_  carefully maneuvered planning.

Besides, everyone else had brought something important. Raven tugged along tents, packed into one large backpack, Wick with the blankets and bedding in his. Octavia had given a knife to Clarke, something large and deadly but primarily meant for wildlife, or so she’s been reassured. Monty and Bellamy had contributed liquids, though neither fessed up to which kind they carried. Lincoln had medicine and detailed procedures. As well as the general competency of the camp.

So Clarke takes the journal—she even says thank-you for it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Day 7. Summer._

_Octavia has taken the warrior title to new heights and has caught each of us our own game. Lincoln is prepping dinner, which is impressive not only because there’s so much of it, but because Bellamy continues to hover the whole time. He’s either trying to learn the recipes for cultural purposes, or to assert his role as Big Brother Extraordinaire over Lincoln. Probably both._

_Raven and Wick are a little ways away from us—I’d call it a camp, but that’s an affront to camps everywhere. They look like they’re whispering sweet nothings (ugh) to each other, although knowing Raven it’s just as likely they’re arguing about setting up mechanical tents. Wick thinks it’s a hilarious idea and Raven thinks Wick is a moron. We all know this because they’ve been trying to drag us into the argument. Bellamy is on Raven’s side, and I’m not Lincoln entirely understands why they want one in the first place. I’m not sure I do either, to be honest._

_Monty is staring over my shoulder as I write—yes, hello Monty. Thank you for the berries. Why yes Monty, you are a god send. You even came from space, congrats._

_~~No that does not make us angels, what are you on?~~ _

_Okay now he’s off to hover with Bellamy._

_It was a good day today. We found a river—no grounders this time, although Lincoln was pretty shifty eyed so we left straight away. Bellamy wouldn’t stop asking him questions about the clans here so most of our afternoon was spent listening to the two of them rhapsodize about groups on the coast. I wrote down what I could remember on the next page, but something tells me Bellamy will have to add to it anyway. We’ll try to pair it with a map of the area, sketch out anything new we find._

_I didn’t sleep much last night, but…it was easier with Octavia standing guard. I’m not sure she’s forgiven me—or that I deserve to ask for it. I think_

_The sun set earlier tonight. We’re headed into autumn soon._

 

* * *

 

 

They come across a ghost town after a few weeks, a place that’s been abandoned rather than irradiated. It’s too small to have been anyone’s target—definitely too small to have provided shelter.

Lincoln pulls out his journal and starts sketching. Raven tugs Clarke along with her until they’ve poked around the nook and cranny of each of the homes. Wick takes to lobbing things at them—he’s testing ‘reaction time’, apparently, wants to make sure Raven’s healing alright.

Raven clips him with the sharp end of a picture frame and pushes Clarke into the next building.

“Doctor’s orders,” she hollers, shoving Clarke onto a—well, it’d have to be a couch, abandoned in the living room of a house abandoned in the middle of nowhere, “no morons allowed.”

Wick crowds inside the doorframe. “Oh yeah? Then why you in here?”

“Because  _I_  have an IQ of—”

“Oh sure, like we all haven’t heard that enough,”

Octavia cuts him off, prancing in with something long and deadly looking in her hands.

“There you guys are.” She takes a swing with the thing, nearly gets Wick under the chin, “What’s this?”

Clarke blinks.

“Baseball bat,” Raven says authoritatively, plopping down next to Clarke. Then, “C’mon, show us your goods.”

Wick flops down on Raven’s other side and Octavia tosses her bag to the floor. It hits the hardwood with a decisive  _thunk._

“This?” She pulls out a long, thin rod—how the  _fuck_  did that fit in her pack?

Clarke squints. “Fishing pole.”

Next is an air horn which— _loud_. Clarke doesn’t laugh, though Raven and Wick are almost on the floor with it. Then it’s an old milk container, three separate sets of knives, a chef’s hat, and something weird and silver and on the tip of Clarke’s tongue.

“That’s a spile,” Bellamy says, startling three out of four—Octavia just grins, unimpressed, “we should keep that.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Day 18. Summer._

_A hundred years was long enough for us to forget the feel of fresh air, but apparently not enough for the world to forget the touch of humans…there are a lot more towns and cities that we’re coming across than I would’ve expected, especially given the way the grounders live. Lincoln says that most clans on the coast live where hunting is advantageous, and that abandoned buildings are a sign of bad luck—they’re largely avoided._

_But they’re absolutely brilliant. I’ve never seen so much of the Old World carelessly strewn about. We dreamed of lakes and mountains and vivid green meadows, but missed the appeal in a handful of houses. Museums and abandoned city halls…it hasn’t been very long and we haven’t seen any cities that are large enough to have been hit directly, but between Monty’s education and Lincoln’s experience we have a good sketch of the area—old and new._

_A hundred years gave us the ability to withstand radiation. The stars gave us dreams. How we ended up on the ground and what we’ve had to do to stay here has been…is awful, but—I haven’t felt free in such a long time…how terrible is it to want to stay untethered like this, forever?_

_Bellamy thinks that since there are so few of us travelling together, we’ll likely fly under the radar even if there are clans in the area. Octavia seems to be pressing that idea into reality, and makes sure to cover our tracks no matter how quiet the woods are. We haven’t encountered any other people, but then again, it hasn’t been that long._

_It’s strange. Between the grounders and the mountain men, I feel like we’ve been on the ground for months. But I was in space nearly two months ago._

_Weather continues to be nice—of course, winters are something to worry over. The radiation can cause quick changes. Food is easy to find but may not be for long, so we’ve stopped just outside this small town…Bell something. The signs aren’t easy to read. We’ll have to look into carrying less easily spoiled food._

_It’s probably a good thing—having travelling companions. I wouldn’t have ended up this far on my own._

 

* * *

 

 

“Ooh,” Monty’s voice send the charcoal skittering across the page, “you can do portraits?”

Clarke puts one hand to her chest to soothe her impending heart attack and uses the other to shove Monty’s shoulder.

Monty, true to form, just rounds to her other side and peers down.

“That’s Lexa?”

He’s never met her—never will, if she’s got anything to say about it. But, well…the face paint is pretty distinctive. Clarke nods.

“Huh.” Monty frowns down at it. “Well. Can you do me next? I haven’t seen a picture of myself since the Ark locked me and Jas up.”

She glances back down. Lexa’s face, half-finished, stares back. Clarke hadn’t drawn her in the harsh lines she’d meant to, had started out trying to pin down. Instead the curves of her cheekbones stand out, the slope of her shoulders…Lexa looks soft in a way she might have never been.

Clarke turns the page.

“Yeah, sure,” she pats the patch of ground next to her, “least I could do for a fellow runaway.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“It wouldn’t give us enough vantage points.”

Raven snorts, “Vantage points for who—the birds? There aren’t any people here Bellamy.”

Wick squints into the sun. “I dunno,”he drawls, “if what Lincoln says is true, then maybe we ought to be watching out for the birds. I’m not ready to fight anything that flies  _and_  is bigger than me.”

“You wouldn’t be able to fight off a rabbit, so that’s not saying much.”

“Uh, yeah, not if that rabbit was  _seven feet tall_ —“

Raven smacks his shin with the handle of her crutch—she doesn’t really need it to walk anymore, so it’s become more weapon than aid. And, honestly, it’s mostly a weapon to use against Wick.

Wick sulks in Clarke’s general direct. Clarke sticks out her tongue.

“Look,” she says, “I never said we needed to stay here—”

Bellamy scoffs, “Well no, we couldn’t. Could you see us fitting all the kids here? It’d be impossible.”

“If we fit everyone in the crappy area around the drop ship then I think we could make a miner’s town work.” Monty counters.

“Hey I  _liked_  that crappy little area—”

“You weren’t there as long as we were! It was definitely crappy!”

“Well I never said it  _wasn’t_.” Raven says, then uses her free hand to punch Monty in the shoulder. Monty, true to form—as well as the general spirit of whatever game they’ve roped him into—shoves her back.

Clarke turns back to Bellamy. “I just wanted to stay here long enough to see if there were any town records. I never said we should  _move_  here.”

He nods. “Well no, ‘cause we’d never be able to guard it.”

“No,” she huffs, “I’m not saying we should move  _anywhere_.”

Lincoln puts an end to all of it by clasping a strong hand over Clarke’s shoulder.

“It wouldn’t work,” he agrees, and Clarke relaxes, “you can’t till the soil.”

She starts, “That’s still not—”

“Alright!” Octavia announces, “Then onto the next one!”

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Day 42. Summer._

_It’s a fucking desert. Everywhere we go, it’s just town—desert. Town—desert. On and on and on…no wonder no one lives here. I want to smash someone’s face into the ground. It’s too fucking hot._

_Raven loves it._

_Asshole._

 

* * *

 

 

It isn’t until they start running out of water that Clarke admits that a due-west course  _might_  be a little too strict.

“We could loop back a little, walk the coast.”

Clarke frowns but Monty’s the first to nip that in the bud,

“It’d never work,” he points out, “we’d be walking straight to where the heat is.”

“What about up then? North?” Octavia taps a finger on the map Clarke’s got pulled out—it’s been tucked into her shirt ever since the drop ship, and is honestly a little worse for the wear.

“Too cold.” Lincoln states, and leaves it at that.

“Well,” Bellamy leans into Clarke, peers down at North America—what once was, “let’s follow the river.”

Monty pales. “I do  _not_  like that idea.”

Raven, on Clarke’s other side, taps a hand on Clarke’s cheek.

Clarke blinks. “What?”

“ _What_ , what? This is your trip. Where do you want to go?”

She doesn’t have a good way to say that her only plan had been  _away_ , but then again. She’s pretty sure they all already know that—they all have their own demons to out run, after all, she’s just made hers more public.

And the thing is, Clarke had been trying to get away from just  _this_. She doesn’t want to lead. She doesn’t want to make decisions for anyone but herself—and she doesn’t want anyone making decisions for her.

“We’ll cross the rivers,” she compromises, after a long pause, “starting with this one.”

She points to one a day’s walk away and so—they go south.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It’s  _hot_  but…there’s water.

Monty’s the first to jump into the river but Octavia’s the second. Clarke’s just grateful to not be the only one with a past to fight off.

 

 

* * *

 

 

She gets up early morning, just a few hours shy of the first hints of daylight—old habits and all that. If being up at the crack of dawn to fight whatever crisis lay ahead hadn’t done the trick, the suffocating anxiety of lives in her hands certainly had. She’s run away from that now, insulated with this easy comradery that’s sprung up, but that doesn’t mean her thoughts are any lighter. Add to that the looming reality of what they’re doing…Clarke never had a plan, leaving—which was part of the point. She doesn’t know what everyone else wants, doesn’t know if this is some sort of intervention or security team. It chafes either way, especially when she wakes and is struck fumbling with intentions and timelines.

She stalks off the weight and paces until something settles. Laying a few minutes away from camp, eyes steady on the murky black sky…it feels a little like being back on the Ark. Isolated. Cold. Surrounded by shades of black and white. Not quite like a prison, she breathes too easily for that, but maybe like a leash slowly tightening its length.

Bellamy joins her more often than not, the two of them laid down side-by-side and staring up into the stars. It’s odd. Being sent to the ground had felt like returning, but glimpses like this make Clarke homesick.

“You ever miss it?”

Bellamy’s shoulder is pressed against hers. He huffs a little and doesn’t need to ask her to clarify. “The place where most of my life was illegal? Nope.”

His voice is steady and right next to her ear—loud enough to cleave through the fuzzy filter of her own thoughts.

“Makes sense.”

He leans into her. “You?”

“Maybe,” she decides with a small sigh, “I think I miss who I was up there.”

“Next in line for a failing ship?”

Clarke snickers, “Yes, definitely that.”

She supposes that would’ve been her future…if not on the counsel than definitely a medic, trying to heal a slowly degrading catastrophe—she’s not so removed from her status as to pretend that she was like any other delinquent sent down here.

Except for Wells—and  _oh,_ doesn’t she keen with the thought of him. Wells would’ve known what to do. He might’ve seen Lexa coming, or even staved off the attacks in the first place.

Or…maybe not. The decisions in the sky weren’t exactly any easier than those on the ground, and no one has all the answers. Wells would’ve helped though. There are very few days that pass that she doesn’t feel that sharply, and the days she forgets are usually the ones soaked in too much blood to try and associate it with the slow grin of her childhood best friend.

It’s a long while before light crests the horizon. Bellamy’s helping Clarke up, her hand tucked in his, silent until,

“You’re the exact same person you know,” and he says it with such certainty, morning light showing the creases around his eyes, “maybe you just never knew who you were up there.”

“You didn’t know me on the Ark, Bellamy,” she points out.

He slides her arm in his. “Maybe,” he concedes, “but you were locked up for treason against the  _council_.” The edge in his voice makes it clear his opinion on them, “I think you’ve always tried to do the right thing.”

“That’s presumptuous.” She considers it, “And pandering, actually. You’re  _pandering_ me right now, what has the world come to?”

He scoffs, “You’re being ridiculous.”

“ _You’re_  being ridiculous.”

“Stop trying to change the subject Griffin.”

“Stop trying to be so fucking  _nice_ , Blake.”

Bellamy snorts, and that’s pretty much all he has to say to  _that_  particular line of thought.

“Maybe,” she muses, after they start walking. “Maybe I haven’t changed. But then I’ve always been capable of this  _shit_ , and that fucking sucks.”

“Wow,” Bellamy laughs, “you’re cranky in the morning.”

“I’m  _hardly_ —”

“No, no, it’s charming. You think I would’ve picked up on it before, but then again…”

She concedes with a smile, “Then again we were always cranky?”

“Yeah, something like that.” Bellamy pats the hand he has tucked in the crook of his arm, and Clarke doesn’t think too hard about it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“So,” she corners him later anyway, “you’re saying that it doesn’t matter how good my intentions are.”

Bellamy just shrugs, arms full of kindling for the fire. As if they need it—it is  _so god damn hot_ ,

“Okay,” he says, “you fuck up. Intentions aside. There’s no perfect plan for this.”

“So people die no matter what?”

“Probably.”

“Thanks,” she snorts, “you’re so helpful.”

Bellamy chuckles. “I’m not trying to be. I killed three hundred people because I was  _scared_  Clarke.” He shudders, just once, but it’s enough that Clarke eyes his shoulder and considers what Octavia would do in this situation, “But we move on. We try again.”

“We?”

He nods, like he’s been saying it all along—which, she suppose he has. “We.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Day 57. Autumn—FINALLY._

_This is Monty scribing for Clarke. She’s currently indisposed at the moment (being a super strange cookie, like, I honestly wish I could sketch a cartoon of it—her and O are rolling in the leaves like…like they’re stoned!!)_

_(oooooh, wait…)_

_(I asked. They are not stoned, apparently, but then again…would they tell me if they were?)_

_…_

_(okay I’m back—again—and they are definitely not stoned. Shame.)_

_Anyway, Clarke asked me to write down a note about THE FIRST DAY OF FALL!!! Apparently we’re measuring seasons pretty oddly here, but since some of the trees are losing leaves, it’s no longer summer._

_I hate to break it to them that radiation means the seasons are going to be a bit wacked from what the history books say. I’ll tell ‘em tomorrow…when they’re not trying to get everyone to roll in the dirt with them._

_Oh well. This is much better than walking anymore today. This is supposed to be a vacation!!!! Between Bellamy and Raven, our little group is driven by dictators._

_Nothing new then, I guess._

_(OKAY I’m off—I’m going to go roll in the leaves!!! What??? I never said I was above rolling in the dirt!)_

 

* * *

 

 

 “C’mon,” he wheedles, “try and think of something.”

“No.”

“Anything at all—tell me why exactly you think you’re in my bad books. Like, I get that everyone else here has known you longer, so maybe it’s a matter of time…”

She can’t decide if she wants to laugh or bite off an insult, so she settles for kicking Wick in the shins to cut him off. Wick, well used to Raven’s usual handling, just cackles like a  _maniac_  and repeats the question.

“I am  _not_  answering that.”

“Why not?”

“ _Because_ ,” she snipes, “I—just because!”

Wick holds up a hand, “Okay, see, that is a terrible reason. I’m a scientist at heart, Clarke, you’ve gotta have something to back your statements up.”

Clarke sulks into her canteen. “Well I’m  _not_  so that’ll have to do.”

“No way, you’re a medic!”

She gasps, mock-offended “Nuh- _uh_ , my mother is a medic. I’m more of a uh…opportunistic field-hand.”

Although the stables take up most of the room, there’s enough light coming from the lanterns in the entranceway for Clarke to make out Wick’s smile. She totters backwards and grabs some kindling to stoke up the fire in front of them, even though she’s still convinced it might burn their safe haven down, because she can’t quite see the rest of his face.

“Hey,” he says, tossing something into the pit that makes it flare up, “I’m second gen. You actually can’t offend me.”

Clarke mulls it over.

“I got your girlfriend drilled.”

He snickers, “First off, there’s a great joke in there that I’m not going to make—I just want you to know that I could’ve.”

“Thanks.”

“ _Second off_ —mountain men drilled into Raven. You actually saved her, so: points in your column.”

She laughs. She tries not to, but no one else is around at the moment, so she does.

“Okay…uhm,” she taps her chin, “Oh! I got her shot in the back.”

“Oooh,” Wick cries, “Nice try, but actually Murphy shot her. Yeah, I’m up to date on ground gossip, so don’t even try to pull that one over me.”

Clarke groans into her hands, but she’s snickering into it. It doesn’t help that Wick’s been spending their time quarantined in the barnyard pilfering booze out of Monty’s bag.

(“Hey,” he’d said, “if they’re going to leave us here because we’re too, quote unquote, ‘klutzy to hunt in the dark’, then they deserve what they get.”)

“It’s not my fault you came late,” she says at length, her voice muffled through her palms, “And  _don’t_  even start—I know there’s a joke in there.”

“Fair,” he laughs.

It’s calm and quiet then, a long moment of Wick breathing in and out and Clarke taking another swig of whatever it is Monty’s concocted since the last town they were in…long enough for Clarke to straighten up and consider Wick’s question seriously.

And sure, she did a lot of fucked things for the first batch of delinquents. And everyone else on this little trip has great reasons to hate her. But Wick’s stuck largely to Raven’s side, and Raven was too incapacitated to get in Clarke’s warpath all that often.

 _Clarke’s warpath_ —she chuckles.  _What have I become_.

“Look,” Wick prods her in the shoulder, and she sways  _way_  too far off balance, “you can keep thinking about all the shitty things that happened, or you can learn from ‘em and move forward. My point is that if you ever need to vent them out, you can complain to me. Like I said, I’m second gen.”

“Second gen  _what_?”

He grins, white teeth catching the fire light. “Second generation down,  _duh_. And they call you smart.”

“No one call me smart.”

“Well that’s cause you  _ain’t_.”

“God,” Clarke giggles, “you  _are_  a moron.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“No.”

“No?”

She eyes the snake—food, but only  _technically_.

Clarke shakes her head. Octavia shrugs and tosses it to Lincoln, who starts roasting it on the fire.

“Your loss.”

Bellamy joins her just as Octavia flounces off. Probably trying to find even more dangerous wildlife.

“Your sister,” she says matter-of-factly, “took  _way_  too well to this.”

Bellamy smirks. Ugh— _Blakes_.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Day 68. Autumn._

_I know we’re headed in the wrong direction. I know—I have this damn map and this is my trip, so of course I know. We’re much farther south than I meant to get, although it’s cooled enough for that to be bearable…but we’re headed towards the ocean, and it’s wrong._

_The others aren’t herding me on purpose, I don’t think. That probably means I am. I’m east and that’s not where I wanted to be._

_It’s been more than two months. I’ve had the exact same amount of time loafing around and wandering these grounds as I have fighting. I want to be over this, I do, but I haven’t slept a night through in days and I keep seeing their faces—even miles away from them, I see their faces._

_Is there no outrunning this?_

 

* * *

 

 

It gets to her in the evening, when Octavia mentions something about Indra and Clarke storms off to into the night, leaves her bag and her belongings and, somehow, her promises.

Bellamy trudges after her but keeps his silence. Keeps her silence, technically—she’s imposed this,  _she_  ran away.

She’s  _running_  away. Her legs are the first to betray her and she collapses on the hillside, staring down into the valley. Bellamy flops down with a little more grace—and isn’t that fucking symbolic? She wants to leave, wants to walk until her feet bleed, but she’s grounded in place by the gentle hand on her shoulder.

He breathes into the still air.

“I thought it would be okay,” he admits, fingers curling inwards, she  _feels_ , “because it was us and we’ve all killed to keep the ones we love safe. Because none of us are innocent.”

“I know that.”

His hand drifts down, over her knee now. She’s shaking.

“You know they would never turn on you for what you did.”

“It wasn’t—” she bites it off with a growl, “look, I’m not. It never was…it’s not that they’ll be reminded of what I had to do to save them. I wasn’t looking forward to seeing any more animosity sent my way, but that’s not really it.”

The silence asks the question—Bellamy just presses his grip a little tighter.

She frowns, her eyes on the buttons of Bellamy’s jacket. Takes a deep breath.

“Every time I look at them I’m reminded of the things I  _chose_ , the actions I took, and I can’t,” her voice wobbles, “I  _can’t_ —”

She’s in his arms before she can finish. A hand on the back of her head guides her face into the nook of his shoulder but she barely notices, sniffling and holding back her last refuge.

“Hey, hey,” he murmurs, “we’ve all done what we had to.”

She sobs. “I don’t  _want it_  anymore.”

“I know,” he soothes, “I know.”

Her next breath is a gulp of air, desperate and untamed, “I don’t know what to do, I can’t figure out how—” she heaves, “how to  _fix it_ , I can’t get rid of this feeling I…I  _can’t_ —”

It’s unfair, she thinks, because they  _have_  all got blood on their hands. She’s the only one who can’t seem to control that, hasn’t figured out how to deal with this or cope with it.

“It’s not just you,” Bellamy promises, his voice strained, and Clarke realizes she’s talking aloud, “we’re not more  _adjusted_ , you know—”

He bites off the sentence and Clarke stills in his arms.  _I forgive you_ , it pounds in her head, pulses at her temples,  _you need forgiveness, fine—I forgive you._

“I know,” she says at length, because she does.

Bellamy holds her tighter and Clarke closes her eyes and brings her arms up to wrap around his back.

“If it’s about Octavia…”

“It’s not,” she reassures him, pressed up against his collarbone—smudged with tears and dirt, she imagines, “She has good reasons to be upset with me.”

 _Still_ , Clarke thinks morosely,  _still, because there will never be enough time between Tondc and me._

His hand has settled at the base of her neck and now he cards fingers through her hair. She sheared it short a few weeks back, tired of trying to deal with the grime.

“Maybe,” he says at last, “but that’s why we never lead alone. No one has all the answers. We’re all out here with you because we have to find them for ourselves.”

“Find what?”

“Dunno yet. A way to cope maybe, accept what we’ve done. Maybe nothing. But you’re not alone, Clarke.”

It’s  _stupid_ , she knows that—she was barely alone for days, even literally. Still, she hates it, but she can hear herself asking, voice weak,

“No?”

He swears, and in his arms she feels tethered—literally—but not suffocated. “No,” he vows, “never alone.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“We good?” Octavia asks a few days later, frowning. Her entire body seems to be frowning, although that could just be because she’s trying to slow down to match Clarke’s pace.

Clarke snorts.

“Yeah,” she says, “we’re good.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Day WHATEVER. I’m not following your dumb formatting rules Clarke, I am a rebel_.

_This is a note to Clarke, obviously, since this is her book. I stole it. That’s also kinda obvious. IT’S NOT THAT I THINK YOU’RE DUMB CLARKE, I JUST THINK YOU’RE SOMETIMES SLOW ON THE UPTAKE._

_Anyway, this is a reminder for you that we ALL love you. Even when we’re mad with your choices or don’t agree with you—like that thing with spices, no one liked it, okay, I’m sorry but it tasted a little weird and I think maybe those were funky mushrooms, if you catch my drift—we’ll always love you._

_(I asked, and it’s true. Even Wick admitted that you’re pretty chill. And in Wick-speak that’s aces, according to Raven.)_

_So just like, the next time you’re worried that you’re unforgivable, just look back here!! We might get angry or fight, but unless you’ve like…decided to become Murphy 2.0, there’s not much to stop us loving you._

_(although I love you the most, okay, Bellamy may have been the one who was the grumpiest after you left Camp Jaha, but I was the one who made him fess up and decide to follow you—I’m sneaky like that. You know)._

_[PS. RAVEN SAYS TO ADD THAT YOU NEED TO STOP PUTTING ON AIRS AND THINKING YOU’RE AN AWFUL PERSON. AWFUL PEOPLE DON’T THINK LIKE THAT. AND ALSO RAVEN SAYS SHE’LL DEFINITELY TELL YOU WHEN YOU’RE BEING AN AWFUL PERSON. YOU JUST HAVE TO LISTEN TO HER…UHM. BE MEAN APPARENTLY. RAVEN SAYS SHE DOES IT BECAUSE SHE LOVES YOU. LISTEN TO RAVEN. AND BELLAMY. AND POSSIBLY OCTAVIA. ACTUALLY, JUST STOP MAKING UNILATERAL DECISIONS AND DECIDING TO STOP TALKING TO EVERYONE. THAT’S DUMB.]_

_[pps. that was all Raven, verbatim. but uh…good things to keep in mind. WE LOVE YOU!!!!]_

 

* * *

 

 

“You’re forgetting something,” Raven says, after Clarke has worn the spine of her journal and said absolutely nothing about it.

“Oh yeah.  _Please_ , enlighten me.”

Bellamy, walking nearby, laughs, but Raven just scoffs.

“Dude, shut it with the snark,” but she’s chuckling even as she shoves Clarke off.

Clarke shoves her back.

“Look, smarty pants, the thing is—yeah, they’re your people. And we’re your people too. But you’re  _ours_. It goes both way Clarke.”

Clarke raises an eyebrow. It’s a talent. “What, are you going to lecture me to my face as well?”

Raven—she doesn’t blush, because that’s not really a Raven thing to do, but she definitely winces a little. “Maybe. It’s a little sappy, okay, but just hear me out.”

“Sappy.”

“Possibly.”

“Wow,” Clarke laughs, “is this because of Wick? Did you have to have some heart-to-heart with him and I’m getting left-over emotion?”

When Raven punches Clarke in the arm this time, it actually hurts. Clarke snickers.

“It’s the regular sex obviously—does things to my endorphin levels.”

Clarke shuts up pretty quick after that—she  _does_  blush, to her utter shame, and she needs to be taken somewhat seriously.

Raven rolls back her sleeves, all business, “Right. So.”

“So.”

“ _So._ ” They laugh, “We had to do some fucked up things to get to Mt. Weather, and I don’t necessarily agree with all of your decisions but…you forgot that you weren’t alone. That you have people. You don’t have to lead the way your mother does, or the way the grounders do. And I know that you’re all hung up on the death and the violence, but that’s our new reality. You were selfish and you chose to save us—I’ll take that any day.”

It’s sobering. Clarke thinks of stepping over bodies and being lucky enough to have radiation poured into her skin and survive.

“That’s fucked up,” she replies, voicing the mantra that been her’s since Mt. Weather.

Raven doesn’t lie, she just nods, “Yeah. But you can trust us to tell you when fucked up gets  _too_ fucked up. You just have to listen.”

Bellamy, who’s been hovering nearby ever since Raven tried to sideline Clarke, knocks his shoulder into hers. “Yeah. We’re a team. No leaders then, just…partners.”

“Partners,” she can’t keep the skepticism out of her voice, so she doesn’t even try.

“A tribe,” he says, smiling now, “a uhm—”

“Executive,” Raven offers, “upper-branch management.”

“Dictators,” Clarke tries, not quite smiling.

Bellamy huffs, “Friends.”

“Family,” Raven counters.

There are  _not_  tears in her eyes. “Headmaster,” she tries, lightening the mood, “Big cheese.”

“Head honcho.”

“Skylord.”

“Sky _master_ , excuse your gendered labels.”

Bellamy chuckles.

“Together,” he says, and Raven grins, fierce and sharp, and Clarke doesn’t protest when Bellamy wraps an arm around her shoulder and presses a fleeting kiss to the crown of her head.

(Well, she does once Raven starts mouthing  _regular sex endorphins_  at her as Bellamy’s distracted by Octavia throwing a snake in Lincoln’s face, but that’s really not Clarke’s fault).

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Day 82. Autumn._

_We’ve started our route back to Camp Jaha. I’m not sure what we’ll do once we get there—Octavia is all for keeping up what we’re doing, and Lincoln says that nomadic tribes are possible, with the right system. Bellamy refuses to say anything either way, but I think we’ve all appreciated the scenery._

_Raven’s just excited for the chance to change the tech in her leg. And Monty…well, Jasper’s back at camp. It’s been good travelling, but they’re right—it’s not the same without everyone here with us._

_As for me…I’m not sure I’ve figured everything out, but I’m starting to get a handle on it. And yeah, so maybe we aren’t the good guys. I don’t think there is such a thing. Jaha tried to be good, but he sent hundreds to their deaths. My mother tried to be good, but she’ll live every day with dad’s blood on her hands. Three hundred dead, and her hands._

_On ours too._

_But I think it’s more important that we’re honest with ourselves. We aren’t good people. But we are loyal. We fight to protect our own. We try to make good choices, when we can, but sometimes…there are no good choices._

_If there’s another day where I’m asked to choose between saving those who I call mine, and condemning hundreds more in the process…I’ll do it all over. I don’t think that’s a good thing. And I’m pretty certain it makes me irrational—unfair. But at least I’ll have people around me to tell me that. To help me make the right choices, even when they aren’t the nice ones. And I’ll help them right back._

_That’s what family does. And we’re going to be okay._


End file.
